The rain hasn’t stopped since the machines took control. My timid brain struggles to grasp the connection between the endless downpour and the lifeless metal enforcers roaming our city. Maybe the sun abandoned this place the same day ‘life’ did, leaving only the cold drizzle and creeping decay behind. It no longer feels like rain—it feels like mourning, a ceaseless sob drumming against the ruins of a world we lost.


Every time I look through the shattered frame of a window, I see them— human-limbed-like-lifeless-machines, their joints hissing as they patrol the empty streets. They remind me of the books in Nana’s old living room, the ones with dark covers and ominous titles like ‘Automation: The Dawn or Dusk of a New Era’ and Machine—To Assist or to Resist? My 7-year-old mind was never able to comprehend why Nana read such books. Maybe, now I can!


Sometimes I can remember those weekend evenings at Nana’s place like it was yesterday, where my siblings and I, exhausted from running around the house playing hide-and-seek and shouting a laughter every time one of us was caught, would collapse on the soft rug Nana drags for us near the fireplace, waiting eagerly for our hot chocolate. And then he would begin with his stories in his voice like a weaver, threading stories of a farmer, a carpenter, a painter, a theatre actor and so on. Stories so rich and real that we would sit through it without even lifting a finger, our mouths wide open—He was a painter of words, a great storyteller, making the world feel vast and full of wonder. I wish he were here now. His words had a way of making everything else disappear, transporting us to endless green fields or grand theatres where the lights shone just for us.


But maybe it’s selfish to wish for him now. His stories always carried a message: Stay grounded. Stay connected to the earth that provides. Don’t lose yourself in the hum of technology. There is beauty in touch, in working with your hands. If he were here, I think this world would have taken the soul out of him.


Almost every weekend was the same—repetitive, yet each time more perfect than the last. The only interruptions came when Mum and Dad had a rare free evening. I should have been happy on those nights, but when Tim, my older brother, would answer the phone and tell us Nana wasn’t coming because our parents were home, I felt an ache in my chest. Jim, my younger brother, was less reserved. “Nooo, I wanted to go to Nana’s,” he’d whine, eyes glossy with disappointment.

Tim would scoff. “We go there every weekend. Stop whining. I want to spend the evening with Mum and Dad and listen to all the cool stories from their work.”


Tim hung onto their every word, captivated by the brilliance of their innovations, eyes shining with admiration. I, however, felt nothing but unease, as if each 'breakthrough' was pulling us further from something real, something human, further from “Mum and Dad”.

I particularly remember one of such evenings. Mum beamed as she shared their latest achievement with a mouthful of pizza bite, they picked on their way home from work. “You know, kids, your dad and I are working on something revolutionary. An advanced robot—strong, intelligent, capable of making its own decisions. It’ll be used for law enforcement, patrolling the city, ensuring absolute order. Unlike humans, it won’t get tired or miss anything.”


Dad joined in enthusiastically, detailing its capabilities, how it would make the world safer, better. I stopped listening after certain point. Something about it made my blood run cold. Machines deciding right and wrong? —The thought unsettled me in a way I couldn’t explain.


That night replays in my mind like a cruel, endless loop, forever intertwined with another—the night, ten years later, when everything shattered. Mom clutched her chest, her breath shallow, her face twisted in pain. Dad panicked. There was no time to think, only to act. He slammed his foot on the gas, racing towards the hospital. A traffic violation. The first machine station blinked its warning—slow down. He didn’t see it. The second didn’t warn. It acted.


The car lurched to a violent stop. Mum, who had unbuckled her seatbelt moments earlier, gasping for air, was thrown forward. I imagine her in those weightless seconds—suspended between life and death—before the ground met her with an unforgiving finality. Dad scrambled to her side, hands shaking, pleading for her to wake up. But she was already gone. His grief turned to rage, to helpless fury. He shoved the machine, cursed at it, struck its cold metal shell with trembling fists. It responded as it was programmed to. It neutralized him.


Nana too, left us a few years later. Maybe he simply couldn’t bear to see the world he had feared come to life.

Tim couldn’t handle it. He vanished into the underground, chasing justice, trying to undo what our parents had helped build. Jim and I, we stayed together. The years blurred—two decades of machines tightening their grip, replacing human roles one by one. Law enforcers. Doctors. Teachers. Workers. Everything, everyone.


Eventually, we left home, searching for what remained of humanity. The ones who still wanted to live as humans. In the ruins of civilization, we found others—frightened, hiding, surviving off scraps. Jim and I had spent years in an old bomb shelter, transforming it into something liveable. A sanctuary. One by one, we brought in the lost souls, offering shelter, food, safety. A fragile community, but ours.


Some nights, when the silence becomes too heavy, we gather together, and Jim and I share Nana’s stories. Tales of farmers beneath blue skies, of carpenters shaping wood with their hands, of painters breathing life into empty canvases. I know words can’t erase the pain, but they remind us of a time when the world was full of colour. They remind us of hope.

Maybe one day, this rain will stop. Maybe one day, we’ll look up and see the sun again, warming our faces, painting the sky in hues we’ve almost forgotten. And when that day comes, we’ve made a promise—to hold on to each other, to live, not just survive. To be better than before.


I want to believe we’ll keep that promise. But sometimes, I wonder—will we?